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Built into the cliffs overlooking the Suvan Sea, Riverfall resides on the edge of grasslands of Cyphrus where the Bluevein River plunges off the plain and cascades down to the inland sea below. Home of the Akalak, Riverfall is a self-supporting city populated by devoted warriors. [Riverfall Codex]

Large and hollow, the training room was a stark reminder that they were beneath the crust of the earth. When Hirem had first taken him to The Sanctuary, he hadn’t realized just how large the complex truly was. Whenever he wasn’t needed elsewhere he would wander -preferably alone- through the labyrinth of brick and stone. Ocassionaly he would stumble across a room or building that he previously escaped him. Unfortunately, most doors were locked, but when he thought no one was around, he would peer through the keyhole, trying to guess what rested in the darkness beyond.

It hadn’t been long before he’d first walked into the large training room. Whether it had been the scent of sweat or the grunts that came from within that had first guided him there, he didn't know. It wasn't an easy spot to miss though, simply because of its size and its prominence within the stronghold.

At times he went down there, to watch others spin blades with unimaginable grace and ease or just to be alone for a bit and think. He suspected they knew he liked to come down into the Within and bury his hands in his hair, trying to decide his life's purpose. He longed to pick up one of the swords from the armory and be trained in swordplay. But who would train him? They probably didn't even want to spare the time. He was a burden, all he would get was reprimand if he would grab a gladius without permission. Permission, he hated that word. They would never be grant him permission to come even close to swords and spears. They had to think him weak and frail ever since he'd arrived with a broken wrist, crying his heart out, practically awakening all who had the misfortune of being in the sanctuary that night. When will they stop pitying me? It was starting to get irritating, to always have eyes burning into his back.

He was hardly the youngest here, and he wished he could be more useful. Sometimes a whisper would reach his ears, but whenever he tried to listen in on conversations, he’d either be sent off, or they would change topic. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to be distrusted so. It can’t just be because I am twelve… Yet he couldn’t think of much else. There was enough work for him to do, he had a roof over his head, food in his belly, and fresh clothes to wear. But what use is that if they won’t let me contribute? Why are they keeping secrets from me? In truth, he didn’t even really know for sure if they were hiding something from him, but it certainly felt that way. Their honeyed voices as soon as he stepped into sight were nothing short of gut-wrenching and an infernal anger had been building in the pit of his stomach.

With a sigh, he plopped down at the edge of the training room and gazed up at the jagged ceiling. The cool air eased his senses somewhat, but did little to stop his mind from jumping to conclusions. All of this was just a ruse, one day they’d snatch him out of bed, fetch a good price for him and sell to a captain in need of a crew. Or perhaps they were breeding him for another purpose entirely. As much as he owed The Sanctuary for taking him in, it didn’t feel like the home he had hoped it to be. This was a large, pleasant brick prison full of people who lived two lives. One as caring, cooing surrogate fathers and mothers and another as members of something ungraspable.

Puffing his cheeks, Timothy let out another long sigh and started picking at his nails. They were clean of course, Matilla had taught him to be proper at all times a long time ago. Even though he hadn’t always been able to, Timothy had taken the advice to heart. His clothes showed no wrinkles or dirt stains, his skin was clean, and he had attained a healthier weight. Aside from his hair stubbornly sticking out, people had a habit of ruffling it, much to his annoyance, there wasn’t a hint of the street urchin left. Not even his perpetual frown had remained the same. First it had faded away, but in recent days the crevices above his brow had deepened and his cheerful walk had muted to cross-armed sauntering.

This is pointless. I can’t do anything useful, and they won’t tell me anything. Maybe I should talk to Kavala…

Standing there on one of the mats in the training room Aoren balanced on one foot while holding on to an iron staff in both of his hands. He had discovered in short order upon purchasing the weapon that even though he possessed some skill with a quarterstaff the weight and maneuverability of the iron staff changed that. It took much more brute strength than he was accustomed to and while Aoren himself wasn’t an unfit man he soon learned that he would have to be a lot stronger to wield the iron staff in the same manner as the basic wooden one.

With a calming breath he lowered his foot finding his balance with the added weight in his hands. Keeping a tight grip on the staff he tipped it downward sliding a foot out into a crouching position. He held the iron staff at an angle spanning the length of his body. He slide back into an upright position then gave the staff an experimental swing. The sound of metal ringing through the air was odd to his ears. It was not that he hadn’t heard the sound before. It was that he’d never really had much personal experience with metal weaponry. This past Fall had proven to Aoren just how necessary it was to be able to defend himself with more forceful weapons. He would take those steps soon enough but for the moment he would start with something at least a little more familiar.

Bringing his hands closer together he began twirling the iron staff slowly at first but with gaining speed. He kept the staff in front of him creating a windmill propelled by the dexterity of his hands. To an observer it might seem like he was simply toying around but the point of these exercises was familiarity. Keeping up with the twirling motion Aoren shifted the staff upward so that it spun above his head. This was more a little more tricky as he now had the added difficulty of keeping the weight of the staff in the air as well as in motion. Aoren kept his eyes trained on the dull grey metal watching his hands closely to avoid slipping up. The sound of an agitated huff caught his attention for a brief second. He glanced away from his practicing to see a young boy plop down against a wall. That brief glance was all it took for one of his hands to slip and the staff begin sliding away from him.

“Shyke.” Aoren swore under his breath. He stuck one of his hands upward letting the staff finish a rotation before sliding slightly to the left in order to catch the off balanced weapon. Aoren clutched the staff tightly ducking his head to avoid getting smacked in the face. Running a hand over his face he sighed. The iron staff was going to take some very serious getting used to. Loosening his grip he let it slide through his hand until the butt of the staff touched the floor. Looking over to the boy he studied him. His face was somewhat familiar. Aoren had seen the kid wandering around the Sanctuary from time to time. Aside from Caelum, Adrien and Eselle, the Drykas man hadn’t really had much time to get very acquainted with everyone who made the Sanctuary their home. Kavala took a great many people under her wing. It was a trait that Aoren admired in the woman. She was straightforward but beneath her rather businesslike demeanor she was rather protective and nurturing. She of course also put people to work which only made those she cared for stronger in the end.

“If you are going to sulk boy, you should do it in a less dangerous place.” The name of the boy propped up against the far wall escaped Aoren. He’d probably heard it before at some point but for the life of him he couldn’t recall it right then. Regardless, the training room wasn’t a place for a boy to sulk about miserably. If the kid was going to be there he should be training or making himself useful elsewhere. It was a gruffer outlook than Aoren normally had but he’d taken a much harsher outlook on things lately.

Green eyes bore into the man. Tim’s stomach shrunk to the size of a marble. Even in a city filled to the brim with warriors, the man boasted an impressive bear-like build and a face seemingly carved out of stone. Hawken eyes, blue as the sea itself, pierced his and pushed him back as if some invisible force emanated from them. His voice sounded equally gruff and chiseled, like a bark rather than a friendly suggestion. Memories of Jed Radacke flashed through his mind and he furrowed his brows in defiance.

“I wasn’t sulking,” Timothy snapped back as he pushed his back off the wall, rose to his feet and glared back at the tall blonde. The carefully placed training mats creaked under his weight. Bare feet sunk into the soft material as he paced towards the man. On any other day he wouldn’t have stormed up like that, most certainly not to a man who resembled peace and quiet itself, but his body had acted before his mind had, and so he halted just four feet removed from Aoren.

“Besides, you’re the one making it dangerous, swinging that thing around without a care,” he jutted his chin towards the iron staff in Aoren’s hands. It felt good to lash out like that. A wicked monster stirred inside and he clenched his fists as if preparing to smack the arrogant fool upside the head. Even as he narrowed the space between them to just two feet, he didn’t strike, no matter how dearly he wanted to make the man feel his frustration. Instead, he brandished his only weapon. Words.

“You’re not even half-decent with that thing. That’s why it’s dangerous, old man.” He spun on his heel and was about to pace away when another thought hit him. “You know,” he began through gritted teeth, “if you are going to boss me around,” he turned again to face the man, “why not give me something useful to do?” He clenched his jaw so hard he was afraid he would break it. “Or is that too much asked?”

Flaring his nostrils, Timothy stepped dangerously close to Aoren and pricked the man’s abdomen with his index finger. “You can’t boss me around, I don’t even know who you are, and I don’t care either! Maybe if some of you people would actually give me something to do, I wouldn’t be standing in the way all the time!” His voice turned shrill and grew louder and louder until he was practically shouting. “But what do you care, eh? NOTHING! Just like everyone else! It doesn’t matter where I go, there’s always someone annoyed by it, yet you won’t let me go back out there either!” he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder to where he thought Riverfall lay. “It doesn’t matter, because I’d be just as useful to everyone if I were dead,” he finished bitterly.

Aoren merely studied Timothy in stoic silence as the boy went into his tirade. Curious, the Drykas man drew upon the threads of his djed. He pushed them to the forefront of his vision opening his sight to perceive the lad’s aura. As soon as Timothy’s aura became more than just a haze that fluttered around his body, Aoren was assaulted with several strong emotions. All around the boy swirled a cloud of anger and frustration. It tugged at the edges of Aoren’s patience but he managed to brush the muddled pot of Timothy’s feelings away from his own consciousness. He looked closer though there was no outward sign of his intense study of the boy. He remained where he stood allowing Timothy to rant. As Aoren looked deeper he sifted through the layers of the boy’s aura until he found a single underlying emotion.

Doubt.

The Drykas man didn't care about the insults hurled his way. He'd been called worse in his lifetime. He had suffered through worse. Besides, before him was the frustrated ranting of an insecure boy as far as he could tell. He didn't know much about the kid but he knew that he hadn't been around the Sanctuary for very long. Where were his parents? Who were his parents? From the lad's words all Aoren heard was a child pleading for the chance to be recognized as more than just a child. He heard a boy in need of the opportunity to prove himself capable of becoming a man.

By now Timothy was finished with his angry display. Aoren blinked away the strands of power that granted him insight into the feelings of others. The wispy smoke of Timothy’s aura faded. Cobalt blue eyes met green before Aoren was slowly kneeling until he was at eye level with the boy. Aoren lay the iron staff on the floor then pushed it away sending it rolling off the mat. He leaned in close until there was only an inch or two between himself and the boy. He stared unblinking into the lad’s eyes.

“You want to prove yourself?” It was a rhetorical question. The boy had already said as much. Aoren was merely giving him the opportunity to do so. Rising swiftly to his feet Aoren clasped his hands behind his back taking a step away from the rambunctious kid. He spread his feet angling his body slightly away from Timothy before lowering his hips. Aoren raised his hands keeping his palms open as he took up a defensive well-grounded stance in front of the lad.

“Prove yourself. Knock me down.” It didn’t matter that Aoren was twice the size of the boy in front of him. With a single hit Aoren could probably send the kid sprawling to the ground but that wasn’t the point. Aoren wanted to see just how deep this kid’s resolve went. If the boy was angry because no one was giving him the chance to prove himself then Aoren would give it to him. This wasn’t the most orthodox way but to Aoren it would reveal a few things. Firstly, Aoren would see just how brave the kid was when facing down someone twice his size. Secondly, if he rose to the challenge Aoren would learn a little bit about his determination. Finally, it would tell Aoren whether or not the boy really wanted opportunities granted him or if he just wanted to rail against the world and wallow in his own pity.

Aoren had no patience for the latter. Still, his challenge remained. He waited for Timothy to either make his stand or to turn tail and run upon being called out.

Timothy watched the iron staff roll off the mats and clatter to the ground. The hunk of muscle stared him down, but only one blink broke his gaze. If the blue eyes emitted a steely determination, their green counterparts shone with eager freshness. Desire to prove his worth brushed his anger aside like a gust of wind scattered autumn leaves. Taking his time, trying to agitate the man, Tim undid his red neckerchief and tossed it aside. After that, he undid the highest button on his shirt, giving his throat some more breathing space. Never taking his eyes off his opponent, Timothy rolled up his sleeves, a devilish glint in his eyes.

"Prove yourself. Knock me down."

“Ready to bite the dust?” he sneered. He wasn’t stupid enough to truly believe he stood a chance, but there was certain pleasure in egging Aoren on, just to see what reaction he could lure from the tall, gruff fighter. “Any part you wish to remain pretty?” As much as he would like to take credit for his taunts, he was merely copying what stumbling drunken fools brawling in the back-alleys of Sunberth had shouted in the middle of the night.

Even as the man took on his stance, towering over him once more, his willingness did not dwindle. An arrogant smirk tugged at his lips. He didn’t care how big, tall, or strong his opponent was. Every man had a weakness. Green eyes flicked to the man’s groin, unwittingly telegraphing his move as he tried to mirror the giant’s pose.

Hiding his face behind clenched fist, knuckles turning white-hot, Timothy gave Aoren a once-over. The groin was a good place to hit, he knew that much. Other options were the neck or face. Now just imagine it’s Jed Radacke.. he told himself. It wasn’t hard, both men were tall and muscled and they probably both underestimate his eagerness to reduce Jed’s face to pulp if he could.

Digging his heels deep into the soft materials of the mats, he prepared to launch forward and kick the giant where it counted. In a flash, a different idea hit him. A devilish grin crossed his face. He dashed to the side, fingers grasped at the cold iron bar. Whirling around, he held it like a sword, “Thanks for the weapon.”Having a weapon against an unarmed opponent did much to bridge the gap in age and height, but it did nothing to cover experience. Standing wide-legged, not because he thought of any technique behind it, but simply so he could swing the staff the hardest, he lifted the bar high into air-

-behind his neck and-

-Without further warning, he leapt forward, swinging the staff at full force. It wasn’t anger or disdain that made him lash out so viciously. The man wore armor under his skin, tendons and muscles tight like strung rope, Tim thought the man could handle a few good hits. Besides, the challenge had been to knock him down.

Aoren waited patiently. He was a man practiced in the art of waiting. The whole of his life he’d spent a great deal of time refining his ability to remain calm under stress. He focused on that ability now. Aoren searched the recesses of his mind looking for the plane of serenity that he was able to reach in his deepest meditations. All the while he simply watched the boy. He didn’t rise to his bait. Aoren had made the stupid mistake of rising to bait in his youth. It hadn’t ended well. He’d disciplined himself not to get pulled in by meaningless taunts that were nothing more than empty words. He did not reach the plane of tranquility that he hoped for but he was certainly much more at ease than he had been a few minutes ago. The balancing of his technique with the weight of the iron staff had brought in him a small amount of frustration as he tested it.

The boy’s eyes flicked to his groin. Aoren sighed inwardly. So it would be that sort of fight would it? Aoren didn’t move from his grounded stance but he readied himself for an attack made on his nether regions. It was logical given the difference between their size and strength but it was an underhanded tactic that almost made Aoren frown. The Drykas man braced himself as the boy sprung forward…and to the side. Aoren frowned as Timothy grabbed a hold of the discarded staff. The boy had no finesse. His footing was all wrong, his center of balance was hardly anything to take seriously in the way of staff fighting and the way he brandished the staff like a sword told Aoren everything he needed to know. As soon as Timothy sprung forward no doubt intent on slamming the staff into whatever part of Aoren’s body he could, Aoren moved.

Aoren hadn’t spent his life training his reflexes and skills in staff fighting to be outdone by his own weapon in such a ramshackle way. The Drykas man sprinted forward meeting Timothy head on. He brought one hand out ducking down slightly to catch the staff. Aoren tensed the muscles in his body as his palm came in touch with the cold iron of the staff. The impact hurt. He would no doubt have some wrist pain for a fair amount of time but Aoren pushed past it. He closed his hand around the staff then gave a forceful yank ripping the staff from Timothy’s untrained hands. Aoren followed through bringing his other hand up with the palm open to shove against Timothy’s chest. The Drykas could have turned the tables then. He could have retaliated against such an underhanded tactic. He could have taught the boy a lesson in trying to fight so dirty against his opponent.

He didn’t.

Instead Aoren planted the butt of the staff against the mat and rose to his full height staring Timothy down. A furrowing of Aoren’s brow was the only insight into what he felt in that moment. He exhaled slowly out of his nose then spoke.

“You are a coward.” The words were said in a matter of fact tone. “You fight without honor. You fling words around like manure in the hopes they’ll sow bitter seeds. But what are they? Empty.”

Aoren swung the iron staff upward to rest across his shoulders. He braced it there with one hand while the other rest upon his hip.

“You wanted to prove your worth, boy? You have.” Aoren dropped his hand from his hip turning to go collect his things and exit the training room. He looked over his shoulder at Timothy.

“You are not worth my time.” He turned his back on Timothy and began to make his way toward his things.

His mirth turned to ash in his mouth as Aoren blocked the strike, disarmed him and came dangerously close to send him flying across the training ground. The man’s forceful shove caused a fleeting pain to flare around his collarbone and knocked the air out of him, but he doubted it would leave a scratch, let alone a bruise.

What hurt far more was the condescending scowl sent at him, followed by even more condescending words. Apparently he had done more than simply fail to impress.

Stunned, Timothy remained frozen until Aoren moved to pack his belongings and leave. He hadn’t expected to actually win against six foot something of muscled, but neither had expected such strong reprimand. No honor? Since when were fights about honor? Though he had avoided petty crime like the plague, he wasn’t an entire stranger to brawls. He’d seen more than a few in Sunberth and had been involved in precisely two. If he had told Jaymer Feller about honor the day the tanner’s son had nearly knocked his teeth out, his youthful nemesis would’ve died from laughter. It had been screaming at clawing at the boy’s eyes that had saved him that day, not some uppity notion of honor.

But Aoren had done far more than just insult his sense of chivalry.

“I am not a coward!” He whirled around on his heel and stormed after Aoren. “You’re the one who’s leaving, how honorable is that?!” A bit of spittle landed in Aoren’s exposed neck. Crossing his arms, Timothy kept a good three feet between them. The Within wasn’t quite so cold anymore and the temptation to stomp away and go sulk, really sulk, somewhere else was almost irresistible. But he couldn’t let the insults go unchallenged. It was one thing to be deemed unworthy of the man’s time, that he could swallow. But to be called a coward was a marrow deep insult to his pride, swelling like a infernal fire in his chest. In a fit of swirling rage, he flipped the oaf off behind his back. Blood buzzed in his ears.

If Aoren were to look up from his belongings and try to leave the training grounds, he would find his path blocked by a stubborn little fellow.“I am not a coward,” Timothy repeated. “If you want to leave, fine, but you’ll have to go through me.” He held his arms out, intending to strike and at least connect one punch, even if the giant would brush past him without a care.

Aoren knew that he had touched on a nerve there. No one liked to be called dishonorable or a coward unless they were the lowest of the low. However, he couldn’t tolerate underhanded tactics in an honest setting. There was a difference between a bumbling street brawl and a disciplined fight between foes. Aoren knew that difference. He had lived that difference. He propped his staff against the wall then turned to face the boy with a heavy scowl. Aoren didn’t need to be able to share in the emotions of the kid’s aura to know that he positively radiated anger. Still, he called upon the strands of his djed pushing it to coat his eyes as he extended his own aura outward. To Timothy it would appear only that Aoren was studying the boy very intently when in reality he was synchronizing his own aura with the boy’s. When that was done Aoren searched. This time with a bit more diligence than before.

What was Timothy feeling? Anger, obviously, but there was more than that. Aoren’s role a Healer called upon him to mend a wound even where one couldn’t be seen. His life as a Seer however moved him to take a deep breath and consider just what had Timothy been through to be where he presently was. After a full minute of silence, Aoren blinked away the powers of Auristics releasing his hold on the djed. The boy was practically a maelstrom of emotions at the moment. Aoren was not yet adept enough to navigate all of them. He sighed reaching up to run a hand through his hair. It was a habit that he never could quite break. It helped him sift through his thoughts.

At the moment he was considering exactly what to do with the situation presented to him. The boy was obviously in some sort of distress. He had taken insult to Aoren’s assessment of him. Aoren had been affronted by the underhanded maneuver he’d tried to pull. But what was he to expect? He was a boy. Had anyone really taken the time to teach him the ways of an honorable sparring match? Had anyone taken the time to teach him anything at all? It put a completely different perspective on the lad’s motivations. Aoren ran a hand over his face feeling several days’ worth of scruff there. He folded his arms over his chest.

Maybe he needed a less brutal approach? There was really no telling. Aoren couldn’t honestly say he was in the best mood to be a teacher at the moment. But it wasn’t his mood that mattered right then. He could recall quite clearly the days when he’d wished someone, anyone, had taken time out of their day just to be there for him when he needed someone most. Sometimes that need was fulfilled. Most of the time Aoren had been on his own. So he told himself to be patient.

“There is more honor is walking away than you might think.” He nodded his head toward Timothy’s raised fists. “Do you really think there’s anything to gain by beating against me in blind anger?”

It was an honest question. Perhaps to Timothy there was something to gain. Aoren didn’t know. He couldn’t read minds.

For the full minute Aoren stared him down, Timothy kept his fists raised, eyes searching for movement, anticipating a sudden lash to hit his cheek. But Aoren remained still as if trapped in meditation. What was he doing? The stark blue eyes started to bore through his skin. Was he being scrutinized? Examined? Maybe it was some form of magic and Aoren was casting a spell on him? The thought sent a chill down his spine. He didn't feel much different though...

Finally the silence was broken and with it, his anger washed away. Good, his fists were starting to hurt from being clenched so tightly. "Dunno," he cocked his head. "Maybe get your attention, prove that I am not a coward, cause I am not. If I was, I wouldn't try to fight you."

Slowly, white-hot knuckles unclenched, tensed arms relaxed and fell to his side. "My name is Timothy, Timothy Mered. You're one of Kavala's friends, aren't you?" He narrowed his eyes and began to circle Aoren. "I think I've seen you around before. Always training..." After having gone full circle, Timothy stopped right in front of Aoren, a little too close for comfort.

"D' you know where all that honor of yours will get you? Nowhere. All 'honorable' people are dead and buried, that's just a fact. They are the ones who walk away and get stabbed in the back. They are the ones who trust their mortal enemies to be as honorable as them. It's stupid," he grimaced and took a step back. "I haven't been in many fights, but none of them have been honorable...then, it's just about not getting hit and hitting the other as much as possible, your honor can go petch itself in a real fight."

He crossed his arms again, and stepped to the side, allowing Aoren to simply leave the training room if he so desired. "I thought you were a real warrior and that maybe you could train me. I guess I was wrong."

Part of him still hoped Aoren would feel challenged enough to take him on. If the man was really that stuck-up about his honor however, it seemed unlikely.

“Timothy.” Aoren weighed the name for a moment with a nod of his head. He followed the boy’s movements carefully ready for any underhanded trick he might try to throw his way. It didn’t come in that instance but that was no excuse to be less vigilant. Aoren could see slightly that Timothy’s logic in regards to what made one brave ran along the lines of being a victor over a defeated enemy. It was a notion that troubled Aoren on a deep level. It bothered him and he knew exactly why.

“Strange. I am an honorable man. I have fought many times. Here I stand. Healthy as can be, very much alive.” The Drykas lowered himself into a kneeling position coming face to face with the boy. The opalescent sheen of the gnosis scrawled across the right side of his face glinted. The Seer’s Lily echoed that sheen answering the call to its sister mark.

“Honor is respecting your opponent. Honor is remaining true even when your foe depends on lies to get the upper hand. If your enemies toss aside honor, then that is their choice. That doesn’t mean it has to be yours. The life you lead is a path of your own making, Timothy. Here I am, an honorable man who believes in respecting my opponent, giving them a fair fight, and I have bled for it.” Aoren rose to his feet returning to the bench to retrieve his shirt.

“Having honor is having the self-discipline to walk a higher path, when those around you give in to what is easy. It does not make you blind to the nature of others but it makes to strive to rise above it.” Aoren tossed his shirt over his shoulder examining Timothy once more. Whether or not the boy took his words to heart, that was not Aoren’s place to decide. If the lessons that Aoren had to teach were something Timothy believed he could aspire to then that was his choice. The Seer had walked too many paths to force such a thing on him simply because he didn’t agree with the boy’s perception of the world.

“A warrior is one who seeks strength that he might guard others, to be their shield when they have not the strength to protect themselves. A savage brute is one who strives for strength born of a lust for power and the need to enact his cruelty upon others.” Grabbing his iron staff the Drykas man made to leave the training room. He stepped past Timothy glancing over his shoulder as he passed.

“Which are you, Timothy? A Warrior or a Savage?” With that, Aoren began making his way through the tunnels of the Within. If Timothy chose to follow him, that was the boy’s choice. If he believed that the words that Aoren shared with him were nothing but shyke and not worth his time, that was also his choice. Regardless, Aoren had needed to stretch and to meditate. He would either do so alone or he might have company. It made no difference to him.